Nesting
by thosedarndursleys
Summary: One week has passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone's just trying to cope.


Nesting

9 May, 1998

The fuzz on the bottom of Hermione's socks was bunching, and she studied it as she tucked her ear against the drywall. Ron had been in his bedroom for upwards of an hour, and if she had been concerned earlier when he had abruptly screeched his chair away from the tabletop and trudged up the stairs, she was utterly anxious now. She had given him a few minutes before following his path to the top floor, wanting to give him time to compose himself before she barged in. When she had gotten to the top of the steps and saw the light leaking from beneath the door, she knocked softly.

"Ron," she had called. "Can I come in?"

He had mumbled something unintelligible in response and asked to be left alone. Hermione had sighed and raised her hand to knock once more, but it fell to her side when she heard a hitched breath from the other side of the wall. Her fingers raked through her knotted curls before she let out a quiet "alright" and took up residence on the worn floorboards. She had known that this wasn't quite what Ron had meant when he asked her to leave, but she had also known that she couldn't just leave him.

It had been a week since the Battle at Hogwarts, and after that first night, Ron had hardly said a word about anything. He attended the funerals and helped with the remodels; he hugged his mum when her eyes became too glossy, and he allowed Hermione to take hold of his hand whenever the memories became too much. Ron had stepped up as one of the main comforters for his family, but he had also become completely silent. As far as Hermione could tell, his eyes never became glossy. He never reached for her hand or anyone else's. He stood there, solid as a doorframe, no matter the chaos around him.

When she had first noticed, it, Hermione had let it go. Ron had never been great with emotions, and she knew that each person handled grief differently, but this was becoming a bit much. She had started to question her reaction to Ron's personal brand of coping a day earlier, but she had held herself in check out of respect for his privacy. Watching Ron's face tense up in the middle this morning's tea, however, had her quickly regretting that decision.

Her fingernail caught on snagged, yellow thread at the toe of her sock as she picked at a particularly large bunch of fabric, and without thinking, Hermione jerked it back to remove the sensation from her fingertip. She watched in morbid fascination as the thread grew longer and a crater formed underneath her big toe. The pad of her foot twitched involuntarily as a draft of her breath caught if off guard. She chewed her lip for a minute before climbing to her feet and letting her knuckles meet the door again.

"Ron, can I come in? I need a pair of socks."

There was a stuttered intake of breath before a bedframe squeaked and the door slid open. Hermione was faced with a disheveled Ron, whose brow creased as he looked at her.

"'Mione, I think that's your worst excuse yet."

Hermione let out an empty chuckle as she looked down to her feet, one considerably more exposed than the other. The loose thread had caught on a floorboard when she stood, and now nearly two of her toes were bare.

"I wish I could say it was an excuse." She shrugged, and Ron shook his head.

"C'mon, then."

Hermione lowered herself to Ron's mattress as he crossed the floor to his set of drawers. He rifled through the top for a moment before pulling out a pair of thick, green socks.

He settled next to Hermione on the bed as she removed the ruined pair, but her hands stopped to knead the fabric as she did so.

"Ron."

The man hesitated before responding. He rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

It came out slow, hesitant, and Ron replayed the words in his head for the following moments. He wasn't sure what she was apologizing for—for interrupting his time alone? For the shit week they had all had? For the War? For Fred and Remus and Tonks? For all of the others?

The more Ron thought about it, the more he couldn't decide, so he just gave a nod. The room stayed silent.

His bedside clock ticked softly, and Ron lost himself in its consistency before taking a deep breath. He could see Hermione's back stiffen as he shifted forward, and her face contorted as he stood from the bed and dropped to his knees.

His hands reached out to take the torn clothing from palms, and he set it aside before reaching down to her other foot and tucking his fingers beneath the elastic. He pulled it off gently, careful to keep their skin from brushing, and then reached up to take the socks that he had left on the mattress.

He avoided Hermione's gaze as she eyed him thoughtfully. Only once she had settled back in bemusement did he lift her left foot and brush it gently with his fingertips. He placed the woolen sock around her toes and guided it up to her ankle before repeating the action with her right. When he was finished, he held her feet in his lap for a moment, and the bed let out a groan.

Hermione had leaned forward, and she reached out her hand to lay it on Ron's shoulder. Her fingers squeezed gently before she raised her palm to his cheek. Her lips were contorted in concern, and Ron broke away from her gaze to look back at the feet in his lap.

He remembered the years of blisters from new school shoes that hadn't been properly broken in. He remembered tan lines from sandals on holidays and toenail varnish from her cousin's wedding the summer before their fourth year. He remembered the creases from the unforgiving heels she wore to the Yule Ball and the wrinkles from when she spent too much time in the Black Lake. He remembered the swelling from their over use as they hunted horcruxes, and he remembered them cut and bleeding as she stumbled through the debris of the Battle.

He rubbed his thumb along the top of her foot, looking up briefly before studying the wool around her toes. He imagined them propped by the fireplace as she read some monstrous book from the library, them pivoting in the kitchen as she danced to the radio. He imagined them tucked into white flats that were just visible below a tooled skirt, them folded just below her knees as she tended to a smaller set of feet in front of her. He imagined them kicking sand at him on the beach and splashing him with the ocean waves. He imagined them tucked between his ankles as they struggled to steal his warmth on a cool, fall night. He imagined them soft and wrinkled from age as they laughed at the gnomes in the garden.

Ron tore his gaze from the woolen socks and settled it on the woman in front of him. He smiled.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for taking the time to read my story! If you have a spare minute, please send me a message or leave me a review with feedback and comments. I promise you that it will make my day. On a more official note, this story was written for Round 1 of Season 5 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. As keeper of the Caerphilly Catapults, my task was to write about or Seeker's (AmazingGraceless) NOTP, which is Romione. For judging purposes, the final word count of this story is 1,224.


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